


Puppet

by AuralQueer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuralQueer/pseuds/AuralQueer
Summary: Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: "Brainwashing."“This isn’t what I wanted!” Normally Martin would be worried about raising his voice. Normally he’d hesitate, and stop, and make himself be quiet and unobtrusive. Normally he’d be embarrassed, or self conscious, or afraid. He’s none of those things now. Half of him hopes that if he shouts loudly enough then Jon will snap out of whatever spell has been woven around him. Half of him knows that he won’t.





	Puppet

“This isn’t what I wanted!” Normally Martin would be worried about raising his voice. Normally he’d hesitate, and stop, and make himself be quiet and unobtrusive. Normally he’d be embarrassed, or self conscious, or afraid. He’s none of those things now. Half of him hopes that if he shouts loudly enough then Jon will snap out of whatever spell has been woven around him. Half of him knows that he won’t.

Annabelle Cane tilts her head to the side. The movement is quick and jerky and originates from the wrong point: as if the top of her skull had been suddenly pulled, instead of moved by the muscles in her neck. It exposes more of the thatch of stitches on the side of her head, and the webs that have crept out between the threads to spread across her close cropped, dark hair in a net of control. “What do you mean, Martin?” Her voice is very soft. Martin can feel it brushing into his mind, gently pushing at his thoughts. He squeezes his eyes shut and shoves it away.

“O-obviously I wanted him safe. Not. Not whatever this is. Let him go. Now!” Martin has positioned himself between Jon and Annabelle, and he has no idea what difference that will make, but it sort of makes him feel better. They’re standing in the second floor of an empty house registered under one of Annabelle’s aliases. That alias is downstairs, staring blankly at a wall, with a head full of cotton. Martin wants to throw up.

Annabelle steps forward. She’s as tall as he is, but much thinner. Martin shrinks back anyway. There’s something about her: out of the corner of his eye he keeps catching jerking shadows on the wall that suggest something much, much bigger than the frail woman standing in front of him. Annabelle stares up into his face, and her eyes are liquid and black. She blinks, slowly and deliberately. Martin curls his fingers at his sides and tries to ignore his sweating palms. “You’re fine, aren’t you Archivist?”

Jon’s voice comes from behind Martin’s shoulder and it doesn’t sound like him and Martin’s skin crawls. “Of course, Annabelle. I’m fine.”

Martin wrinkles his nose. “His name is Jon.”

Annabelle blinks again, and something without skin touches Martin’s arm. Martin tries not to flinch away, and then stands his ground as it pushes him, refusing to let her come past. The pressure doesn’t increase. Instead Annabelle stops and looks up at him. Martin thinks he can see the glistening line of webs across her cheeks in the low grey light of the building. “Let me through, Martin.” Annabelle’s voice is gentle and almost emotionless, but there’s suddenly a far greater force pushing at Martin’s mind and he recognises it for the warning that it is.

Martin purses his lips. “No. You’ve done enough, Annabelle.”

There’s a terrible clicking, chittering sound and it seems to be coming from all around him: on the floorboards near his feet and tapping against the low ceiling just above his head. Martin can feel his breath coming too fast and his mind whirling and still, the insistent pushing in his head as every hair on the back of his neck lifts. “That’s not very gracious of you. After everything we’ve done for you. To make you ours.” Something cool and hard caresses Martin’s cheek and Martin shudders. Annabelle’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a dozen whispering places at once. The words wind into Martin’s ears and wrap around his head.

He stares at the old, bare floorboards and nods, once, sharply. Then he looks up and forces himself to meet Annabelle’s eyes. She has more of them now. “I know. And I have chosen you. But that has to be on my terms. I’ll be your avatar, not your slave.”

Annabelle looks bored. Her head snaps to the other side. “Semantics.”

Martin’s lips are pressed so tight they almost hurt, and his fingernails are digging into his palms, and he thinks probably if this had happened to him two years ago then he would have already started crying. As it is, he swallows, and nods again. “Alright. Then I guess I’ll go back to Peter.”

Annabelle doesn’t frown. Martin isn’t sure that she knows how. But there’s a flicker in her expression: a momentary pause in the whispers constantly massaging his brain, trying to find a way into his thoughts. “You wouldn’t. They will not have you.”

Martin laughs, once, without humour. “If anything, I think rejecting them will have made them like me more.”

There’s a long, long moment in which nothing moves and Martin is very aware of the carpet of dark things on the walls and floor and ceiling waiting for a signal from their mother. It’s cold. Then that moment passes, and light melts into the house through a grimy window as if a curtain had suddenly been drawn back: though the dirty white plastic rails above it haven’t been used in years. Thick grey dust-ridden web hangs beside the glass in a parody of decor. Annabelle Cane steps back. The corner of her thin, corpse-grey lips curls a little.

“You are trying to manipulate me.” It’s not so much an accusation as a statement.

Martin smiles back at her. “Is it working?”

Annabelle slips her hands into the large grey hoodie she’s wearing. It slips past her waist, fitting her about as well as a king-sized duvet cover. “You’re too human.” Then she turns, and the shadows swell with a whispering of hair-thin legs, and she melts into the wall. Martin stares at the wriggling shadows where Annabelle had been for so long his eyes hurt, waiting for something to leap out and eat him whole.

Nothing happens. In the quiet of the room, eventually, the sound of Jon’s breathing behind him becomes clearer and clearer. It’s slow and deep, as if he were sleeping. Martin turns around, and stares at the love of his life. Jon stares back, and doesn’t see him.

He’s standing still and swaying on his feet. His arms are loose at his sides. He’s wearing a shirt and vest and trousers, but he doesn’t have a coat. His hair is pressed flat to his head by the rain. He isn’t blinking.

Martin swallows, and tries to smile, moving directly into Jon’s line of sight. “Hey, um. Jon? You should probably blink. I think. It’s bad when you don’t.”

“Ok.” Jon’s voice sounds like it’s been put through a computer programme: simulated so that someone can put sounds together and make words with no feeling. He blinks, once, slowly. And then again a few times. A tear runs down his cheek. Martin tells himself that it’s a physiological response and tries to ignore the way his chest aches. Rain stains Jon’s shoulders, and there are goosebumps on his skin.

Martin pulls off his jumper and holds it out. “Y-you must be cold. Put this on? You’re going to get sick.” He tries to smile. He can’t. The longer he looks at Jon the harder it is and he’s not supposed to be here in this place and Martin doesn’t know how to fix it and he never wanted this and everything was supposed to be ok now. It was supposed to be ok.

Jon mechanically pulls the jumper over his head. It’s almost comically huge, with sleeves stretching almost to the tips of his long fingers and the waist dropping far past Jon’s own. Martin would laugh, except that Jon is just watching him: eyes not quite focused, waiting for his next instruction. Martin takes a deep breath, and coughs on air that’s thick with dust.

“Right. So. Someone.” Martin laughs, and runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it and trying to ignore the stinging at the corners of his eyes. “Not someone. Me. I, did this to you. I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear I didn’t.” Jon keeps staring at him. His eyes are as dark as a moonless night. “But it’s happened and I don’t know how to fix it so, if you can hear me and you’ve got any ideas then uh. I mean. You’ve always liked telling me how to do my job, right?” Martin laughs, and his stomach turns. “S-sorry. That was. Stupid. I…” He stares at Jon. The house smells of dust and damp and mildew. “I don’t know what to do.”

For a minute, he stands there. Martin doesn’t know what he expects. A miracle, in a world of monsters? The power of love to see him through? Jon to recognise him, and forgive him, and somehow just come back? But none of that happens. Jon just stands there and waits for his next order and Martin can’t speak past the lump in his throat.

Jon blinks.

Martin swallows, and reaches out, and very carefully sets his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “Ok, I’m. I’m sorry for. I’m thinking this might help and I promise I’ll never touch you again if you just come back ok? But. I need you. We need you. And you can’t, you can’t be like this. This can’t be how it ends. Not like this.” Martin can feel himself squeezing too hard, fingers pressing in the bones of Jon’s shoulders through the thick wool of his jumper. He blinks, and tears tickle his nose and chin. Martin looks into Jon’s eyes, and steps closer. Jon watches him and sees nothing and Martin could almost imagine that would be a relief, after so many years of being seen in every possible way. But it’s not.

Gently, he shakes Jon, and Jon’s body rocks back and forth under his hands. “Jon. I know you’re in there somewhere. You’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than her and you’re stronger than me. You can fight this. Just come back. Please, please just come back to me.”

Nothing happens. Jon keeps staring. Outside, a car horn blares in the road and there’s the aggressive acceleration of an engine. Rain taps against the window. Martin waits, and he waits, and nothing happens. His fingers start to uncurl around Jon’s shoulders. He can feel something heavy and cold pulling his stomach down through his torso and it is so much more painful than anything that Peter Lukas could ever have done to him.

For a second, it’s all he can do to stay standing. But then he squeezes Jon’s shoulder and lets go of him with one hand and slips his phone out of his pocket and calls a taxi. “Ok.” Martin thinks he can almost feel the hope sigh out of him in the word: every fantasy about finding Jon again, and telling him the truth, and keeping him safe, and saving him. Silent tears run hot and sticky down Martin’s cheeks and Martin just doesn’t care. The grey light of day ripples like water across the rotten floorboards of the empty room. Martin keeps one hand on Jon’s shoulder, like it’s an anchor. Like if he lets go he’ll never find him again. “Let’s get you home.”

Jon blinks.

“Ok.”


End file.
